"I was shown to your room earlier today and told that I could wait for a few moments. When you didn't arrive, I became bored. I noticed that the catch on the locket seemed as if it might break. When I examined it, it did break and the potion spilled to the floor. And that's when you came in. Actually, I wasn't sure that it was you at first, so I hid in the closet. Then you tasted the potion, and, well, here you are."
"What do you intend to do?" Cyric said. "Will you expose me, as you did in Arabel?"
"Certainly not," Marek said. "If I do that, what's to stop you from exposing me? That, you see, is the reason for my visit. I merely wished for you to maintain your silence until after the battle."
"Why?"
"During the battle, I'll make my escape. Switch sides. Return to Zhentil Keep with the victors."
"The victors," Cyric said absently.
Marek laughed. "Look around you, Cyric. Do you have any idea how many men Zhentil Keep has mustered? Despite the preparations, and despite the advantage of the woods between here and Voonlar, Shadowdale doesn't have a chance. If you had any intelligence, you'd follow me out of here, follow right in my footsteps."
"So you have told me," Cyric said.
"I offer you salvation," Marek said. "I offer you a chance to return to the life that you were born for."
"No," Cyric said. "I'll never go back."
Marek shook his head sadly. "Then you will die on this battlefield. And for what? Is this your fight? What is your stake in all of this?"
"Something you wouldn't understand," Cyric said. "My honor."
Marek couldn't contain his laughter. "Honor? What honor is there in being a nameless, faceless corpse left to rot on a battlefield? Your days away from the Guild have left you a fool. I'm ashamed that I ever thought of you as a son!"
Cyric turned white. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I said! Nothing more. I took you in as a boy. Raised you. Taught you all you know," Marek sneered. "This is pointless. You're too old to change. So am I."
Marek turned to leave. "You were right, Cyric."
"About what?"
"In Arabel, when you said I acted on my own. You were right. The Guild doesn't care whether or not you ever return. It was only me that wanted you back. They'd have forgotten long ago that you ever existed had it not been for my insistence that we try to draw you back."
"And now?"
"Now I no longer care," Marek said. "You are nothing to me. No matter what the outcome of this battle, I never want to see you again. Your life is your own. Do as you will."
Cyric said nothing.
"The effects of the potion are disorienting. You might experience some delirium before your fever breaks." Marek took the locket and left it beside Cyric on the bed. "I wouldn't want you to dismiss our conversation as a fever dream in the morning."
Marek's hand had just closed over the doorknob when he heard movement from Cyric's bed. "Lay back down, Cyric. You'll hurt yourself," he said, just as Cyric's dagger entered his back.
The thief watched as his former mentor fell to the floor. Moments later Mourngrym and Hawksguard appeared at Cyric's door, along with a pair of guards.
"A spy," Cyric said hoarsely. "Tried to poison me… Came back to question me in return for the antidote. I killed him and took it." Mourngrym nodded. "You have served me well already, it seems."
The body was removed, and Cyric climbed back into bed. For a time, he was poised on the brink of fantasy as the poison from the locket coursed through his system. He seemed to be trapped, half awake, half asleep, and visions ran through his head.
He was a child on the streets of Zhentil Keep, alone, running from his parents as they sought to sell him into slavery to pay off their debts. Then he was standing before Marek and the Thieves' Guild as they passed judgement on him, a ragged, bloodied youth they had found on the streets, robbing to survive; their judgement made him a part of the Guild.
But of course Marek turned away when Cyric needed him the most — when he was marked for execution by the Guild and forced to flee Zhentil Keep.
Turning away.
Always turning away.
Hours passed and Cyric rose from the bed. The red haze lifted from before his eyes. His blood had cooled, his breathing became regular. He was too exhausted to stay awake, so he simply collapsed on the bed again and surrendered to the tender embrace of deep, dreamless sleep.
"I'm free," he whispered in the darkness. "Free…"
Adon left Elminster's abode late at night, at the same time as the scribe, Lhaeo. The old man had actually shown concern over Lhaeo's well-being as he sent the man off to contact the Knights of Myth Drannor. Magical communication with the east had been blocked, and armed with Elminster's wards, the scribe would have to travel by horse to deliver the message to the Knights.
"'Till we meet again," Elminster said, and watched his scribe ride off.
On the other hand, Adon simply walked away, without raising a single word or gesture from the sage. He was halfway down the walk before Midnight caught up to him, and gave him a small purse of gold.
"What is this for?" Adon said.
Midnight smiled. "Your fine silks have been ruined during our journey," she said. "You should replace them."
She pressed the gold into the cleric's cold hands and attempted to warm them between hers. The breathless excitement she had felt all day was painfully apparent to the cleric. Besides attempting to fathom the answers to some of the mysteries that had plagued her all during the journey, Elminster had allowed Midnight to participate in some minor rites of conjuring. There were many instances however, when even Midnight had been shut out of Elminster's private ceremonies that evening.
The darkness had already enveloped Adon when Midnight called out, reminding him to return in the morning.
Adon almost laughed. They had set him in a tiny room and given him volume after volume of ancient lore to read so he might attempt to find some reference to the pendant Midnight had been given. It was a gift of the goddess, Adon argued. Forged from the fires of her imagination. It had not existed before she called it into being!
"But what if it had?" Elminster said, eyes gleaming. But Adon was not blind. Interspersed in the lore he had been given were tales about clerics who had lost their faith, then regained it.
They would never understand, Adon thought. His fingers touched the scar that lined his face and he spent the evening reliving their journey, attempting to spot exactly where he had committed such an affront against his goddess to warrant her desertion in his greatest time of need.
By the time he noticed where he was, Adon was startled to find how far he had traveled. He was long past the Twisted Tower, and the sign for the Old Skull Inn was just overhead. The gold Midnight had given him was still clutched in his palm, and he slipped it into one of his pockets before he entered the three-story building.
The taproom was crowded and filled with smoke. Adon had worried that he would find dancing and merriment, but he was relieved to find the people of Shadowdale as preoccupied with their thoughts as he was. Most of the inn's customers were soldiers or mercenaries, come to the Old Skull to kill time before the battle. Adon noticed a young couple who stood off to the far end of the bar, laughing at some private joke.
Adon sat with one elbow on the bar, resting his face in his open hand, trying to cover the scar.
"What spirits will you be wrestling with tonight?"
Adon looked up and saw a woman in her mid-fifties, with a pleasant, robust glow in her cheeks. She stood behind the bar and waited patiently for the cleric to respond. When his sole communication was a wounded, dying flicker from his once fiery eyes, she grinned and vanished behind the bar. When she returned, she carried a glass filled with a rich, violet brew that sparkled and sputtered in the light. Bits of red and amber ice whirled around in the drink, refusing to come to the surface.